Knightley in London
by chexbb
Summary: What was Mr. Knightley thinking in London? An exploration of Mr. Knightley's feelings for Emma Woodhouse before the novel and before Frank Churchill and while he is visiting is brother John.


Chapter 1:

God, I hate myself for it. I am a man who is known for being in control, for making well thought-out decisions, for being reasonable and yet, I took her hand. I took her hand and I nearly—well I hate to think of it. In fact, the purpose of this whole excursion was to stop thinking about her and to start thinking more clearly. I am her brother, her old family friend. Please, dear reader, put special emphasis on the old. I am George Knightley, a settled bachelor, set in his ways. I have no need or desire to marry. I am the man to come to for advice. I am stable and dependable. An island in my own right. William Larkins could not ask for a more responsible master, Robert Martin could never find a better landowner, and my neighbors could not wish for a more selfless friend.

Or so I thought.

Or so everyone thought.

Then there was this Frank Churchill fellow. Frank indeed. The most proper and improper name at the same time. Frank and honest is one thing he is most certainly not. And yet, Frank implies French and as I told Emma—no, let us steer away from that topic—as I have said before, Frank Churchill can only be amiable in France where false airs and smug arrogance are admired. Frank Churchill. Well, in that aspect, the Franks have conquered this old English island. They have taken what I love, perhaps even what I need most. Soon my treasure shall become Mrs. Frank Churchill and I… I shall remain Mr. George Knightley, same as always. That is, if no one notices that I am a bit quieter and humbler than usual.

But then, I may not be quieter. After all, I am here to forget her. And I shall, I shall conquer this! I will move on. I will attend more parties in London and flirt with other young women. I will ride recklessly through the streets and dress in finery and laugh loudly. I will forget her intelligent green eyes and her inner smile which only I can see. I will cease to care that Frank Churchill maybe trifling with Jane Fairfax and that he barely understands Emma at all. I will only remember that she is the cause of Robert Martin's pain and that she is the most haughty, proud young woman that ever lived. A perfect match for not-so-Frank Churchill.

I will forget that her headstrong nature is one of the many, many things I love about her.

I should have been able to detach myself long ago. What, with all this matchmaking business. It should have been easy to see what a difficult sort of girl she has become. I shouldn't say girl, though. Woman. That's when I fell in love with her, you see, or at least when I realized I was in love with her: when I first heard of _him _and I realized she had grown up, that she would not be_ my_ Emma forever.

I was attending one of those insufferable parties which I only endure to please Emma and the host. Emma and I were having a perfectly amiable conversation about something trivial like her dear father's latest ailment or Donwell's crop or news from London. Our relationship was simple. To her, I was Mr. Knightley (said in a saucy tone and despite the "Mr.", very informal). She was Emma, more a sister to me than even Isabella. We were good friends. Dare I say, each other's best friend? Of course, she had Miss Taylor and I had John and Larkins, but there was no one who quite made my day a little lighter like Emma.

And I believe, at that time, she felt the same.

Mr. Weston and Miss Taylor, as she was, were standing nearby. It was only a month or so before their engagement would take place. Emma was closing her campaign for the match to come about. Her goal was in plain view. However, Emma was still Emma as she is today. Seeing them standing so closely together did not designate in her mind, as it would in the heads of others, a rare private moment which, if left alone, would advance her cause. No, Emma immediately assumed that there would be awkwardness between them if she were not present to facilitate the conversation.

Tactfully as she could, Emma proposed, "Oh, Mr. Knightley. Let us go speak to Mr. Weston and Miss Taylor. I have a very interesting question for him."

I gave her my classic "I know what you're doing and it won't work" look.

She replied with her most frequent "I know you know and I don't care" smirk.

Nonsensical girl!

So drawing near, Emma cried with artificial surprise, "Mr. Weston! How do you do?" And I nodded and smiled with as much seeming pleasure and affability as I could. If anything, our sudden appearance created more embarrassment than assurance. Miss Taylor became quiet and the blush on her cheeks was apparent. I wondered what we had interrupted.

After the proper amount of chitchat, Emma went in for the kill, "Mr. Weston, Miss Taylor informed me the other day that you have a son! I was aware that you were married some years ago, but I did not know that you had a son as well."

This was not news to me as Emma supposed it would be. Just because I do not tell her about it does not mean I'm not aware of it. Emma seems to think that as the social queen of Highbury, she should be notified of any persons or families connected to residents who she feels are significant enough to earn her notice. I think that, in most cases, people only need to know what others choose to tell them. I have my secrets. Others have theirs. And I will protect the privacy of those I respect with constancy.

Mr. Weston seemed flustered for a moment, but recovered with a small bow and smile. "There you are correct, Miss Emma. I do have a son, Frank Churchill. He is just twenty-one now, right about your age. He has lived since his infancy with his relations, the Churchills, and has taken their name as he is heir to their estate, Enscombe. Enscombe is just outside of London. Frank has never been here."

Emma was obviously hungry for more information about the mysterious Mr. Churchill, but could not pass up the occasion to reconfirm her support for the Weston-Taylor match.

"Perhaps he will have a very good reason to visit soon, Mr. Weston."

Weston never misses an opportunity to flatter and he seized upon the suggestion with alacrity, "Yes, there are many people I would like for Frank to meet. I am sure he would find the company here so uniformly charming, he would never wish to leave!"

To me, it was obvious that Emma need not trouble herself with bringing together this couple any longer. Miss Taylor looked up at Mr. Weston with a sincere smile filled with anxiousness, hope, and admiration. Certainly, she was smitten. And Mr. Weston was the same. The way we looked at her as he spoke, with such intensity and care, immediately informed me of his intentions. But Emma, a little oblivious as always to what she most needs to see, took his words as a comment particularly to herself and encouragement to ask more about Mr. Churchill.

"And what sort of man is Mr. Churchill? What does he enjoy?"

Mr. Weston tore his eyes away from his future bride and began again, "Frank enjoys many things. He wishes very much to travel. He enjoys hunting. And like any young man, he loves nothing more than a ball."

"Well then you shall have to have a ball to entice him, Mr. Weston."

"Yes I shall, Miss Woodhouse. Indeed I shall. And he must take a turn with you. He could not ask for a more enchanting partner."

Emma laughed and hung her head humbly. "If you have a ball, Mr. Weston, then I know just the woman to help you plan it. Miss Taylor is excellent at organizing events. Do you remember the party we held for my birthday last year…"

Little did I know what this conversation would foreshadow. Emma's voice continued onward and I stood there, half listening, smiling when everyone else was smiling, laughing when I heard everyone else laugh. The whole conversation made me most uncomfortable. I did not like Emma's interest in Frank Churchill. He sounded like an unbearable puppy to me. She had never thought twice about any of the other young men in town. However, suddenly, Emma's voice halted. It seems she felt she had done her duty for the evening. As if on cue, the bell rang for dinner and we all moved in to the dining room of Randalls.

Chapter 2:

It wasn't till the next day that I realized the full extent of my feelings. Certainly, I knew that I was being possessive of Emma and slightly illogical in my predisposed dislike of Mr. Churchill. But, it seemed logical to me. After all, I was Emma's pseudo-brother and there was nothing wrong with being protective. My thoughts did not seem at all out of the ordinary. But once again, it seemed fate was insisting that I should comprehend what my high regard for Emma Woodhouse had become.

I was on my way to town to go to a magistrates meeting. We were interviewing new vicars for the main parish in the area. Reverend Bates had recently left the position vacated upon his death. In the past few years, we had gone through several temporary postings and we were ready to choose a new, permanent vicar. Right now I cannot dwell on what led us to choose that obsequious toady, Phillip Elton.

Mr. Weston was traveling the same path I was and towards the same destination. Weston, with his amicable ways, quickly found a high place in Highbury society. He had lived in Highbury only since just before Bates's death, but he was already assisting in making major decisions.

I was in no mood to talk, but when Weston called out my name, I slowed to allow him to walk with me. I still wonder to this day if things would have been easier had I pretended I hadn't heard him.

"Good to see you, Knightley. Did you enjoy the party last night?"

I could not respond in the negative to Weston's jovial brusqueness so I replied with as much energy as I could muster, "I did indeed. One could not have asked for a better setting or better people."

"Yes. I did so much enjoy our conversation with Miss Woodhouse and Miss Taylor."

I rolled my eyes inwardly. "They are truly two of the finest sort of ladies."

"Indeed. And Miss Woodhouse's interest in my son started an idea which I simply cannot get rid of."

I walked casually along, not knowing the worst was yet to come, "Oh yes. Emma always wants to assure herself of the well being of all those relatives of those she cares about. There is no one more kind than Emma."

""Well," said Mr. Weston, smiling, "you give her credit for more simple, disinterested benevolence in this instance than I do; for while Emma was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head, and I have never been able to get it out again. The more I think of it, the more probable it appears. In short, I have made a match between Miss Woodhouse and Frank. What do you say to it?"

Ah, the consequence of keeping Emma company! Poor man, he was not aware of the effects she had had on him already. Even I must admit to some amount of propensity to match make. But mine is created by a wish to correct Emma's mistakes. However, despite his pitiable blindness to his own folly, I could not help but vocalize my disapproval.

"Your son and Emma!" I exclaimed. "Mr. Weston, how could you think of such a thing? Emma must not marry! You would not have Emma leave her father at Hartfield? Oh! no, no, Emma must be at Hartfield. I cannot at all consent to Emma's marrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely. I am amazed that you should think of such a thing."

"Knightley, I have told you what led me to think of it. I do not want to injure dear Mr. Woodhousebut the idea has been given me by circumstances; and if Emma really wished to marry, you would not have him refrain on Mr. Woodhouse's account, a man of sixty years old, who wants his daughter to be happy?"

"Yes, I would. He could not bear to have Emma move. Emma marry! No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt it now."

"Nay, my son, I'm sure, will be a first favorite with her, as you very well know."

"But the imprudence of such a match!"

"I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probability."

"I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation than what you mention. His good-nature, his amiability, as I tell you, would be quite enough to account for their being excellent acquaintances. She has a great regard for you, you know, independent of your son and is always glad to see you. But Mr. Weston, do not take to match-making. You do it very ill. Emma not the mistress of Hartfield! Oh! no, no; every feeling revolts. For her father's sake, I would not have her do so mad a thing."

I do not blame Mr. Weston for being taken aback. He was not accustomed to my speaking with such vehemence and fervor. And to be honest, neither was I. I was not sure what had come over me. I attempted to keep my words as light as possible, but my true concern showed through. Mr. Weston started his next words slowly as if try to calm the mad.

"Knightley, you do know that she will probably marry sometime, even if not to Frank. She is, after all, a delightful woman with all the prospects in the world. I would not be surprised if she has an offer within the next two years."

This made me wonder at my own reaction. Did I not expect she would marry? Surprisingly, I found the answer was no. Miss Emma Woodhouse was such a constant in my life, just as I was in hers. How could I ever imagine how much that would change when she married. I would barely ever see her. She would be at Enscombe, twenty miles north. There would be no more walks around the country, no more debates, sparkling with wit, no more archery practice on Wednesdays, no more Emma. Only Mrs. Churchill.

Suddenly my future was grey, indeed.

I decided I thought it would be best if I left the issue alone until I had brooded more over the matter myself. I must have murmured something fairly satisfactory to Weston about "brotherly protection" and what not. Yet every fiber in my being was screaming that I was not Emma Woodhouse's brother. I felt no brotherly duty to see her settled and happy in her own home. The kind of possessiveness I felt was extraordinary. She was my Emma. I had never thought that would change.

And then I began to think on my feelings and what they meant.

Thinking is the curse of my existence.

At the meeting, with mixed feelings, I seated myself at a little distance from the numbers in the hall to listen to the interviews. Once again, I feigned interest though my thoughts were only of Emma. But the memory of Emma among the most attentive listening to Mr. Weston, soon drew away half my mind; and I fell into a train of thinking on the subject of his suspicions, to which the sounds of the voices gave only momentary interruptions. Perhaps that was how Elton was hired. If only I had paid greater attention.

My objections to Emma's marrying did not in the least subside. I could see nothing but evil in it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. Woodhouse; consequently to Isabella. A real injury to her community; a most mortifying change, and material loss to them all; a very great deduction from her father's daily comfort; and, as to herself, I could not at all endure the idea of Emma being away from Hartfield. A Mrs. Churchill for them all to give way to! No Emma must never marry. She must remain the queen of Highbury.

This thought of Emma's seemingly imminent departure continued with me as I walked towards Donwell. I lost myself in my confusion, completely forgetting the time or my surroundings. It was only upon arriving in my side field that I remembered what day it was.

Thursday.

Our weekly archery practice.

And there she was. Strawberry blonde hair curling out from under her bonnet, an intense look of concentration in her eyes, her dress blowing softly in the breeze, pressing against her figure. She was frowning at the direction her arrow had taken, her scowl as beautiful as her smile.

It was then that I finally _saw _her. I finally noticed what little Emma Woodhouse had become, a beautiful, headstrong young woman. She was (and is) not faultless. Her kind heart was often skewed by her proud head, but I truly believed, and still do believe in fact, that she wants the best for everyone she loves. If only she knew what was best. Yes, sometimes Emma's intelligence is slightened by her lack of wisdom, but she has learned and is learning. So you see, I know that Emma is not perfect, but her faults are part of her and I love all of her. Every bit. Just the way she is.

And that is when I knew it.

Finally, I realized what a masterpiece in progress Emma was. But somehow, I loved each phase just as much as the others. Matchmaking Emma, flirty Emma, even Mrs. Emma Churchill. I have loved and will love them all.

It was just that, that day is the field, in the sunshine, I realized that my love for Emma is also a masterpiece is progress, but in this case each phase is very different. I found, that day, that as Emma had become a young woman, my love for her had become that of a man in love with a woman. She had gone from being Emma my sister to Emma my friend to Emma my love.

And now she is Emma my everything, but she will become Emma his wife.

Great.

So, you may ask, do I believe in love at first sight. Well, yes. I loved Emma from the first time I really, truly saw her: as a woman and a person in her own right and not as the girl who I had known all her life, who broke my mother's best vase, who forced me to chase her around the room, and who cheated at hide and seek. I don't know what would have happened if I had just seen Emma there, if we had never met before. I think I would have still loved her in a way… for her beauty and her brilliance which radiated from her like rays. But, when I saw her, I didn't just see her strengths, I saw her weaknesses too.

So I stood there, I suppose. I don't know how long. Emma quickly noticed me and called me over. I was dumbfounded. What could I say? How should I behave? I felt all that I was feeling was written across my face.

As she approached, I heard Mrs. Weston's voice in my head, giving me the advice I had heard her give Isabella once in regards to John, _Let her behavior be your guide. _Well, it had worked fairly well for them.

Emma acted friendly, as she always did, and so I acted friendly, as I always did.

Emma was sarcastic and so was I.

I felt myself slipping into the friendly pattern we had always occupied. We were rarely very serious around each other except when we debated the decisions of one another, always testing each other, working to improve each other—doing what we had always done. Challenging one another to battles of wit and knowledge.

Normalcy was key.

So that's how I guarded my feelings for Emma for the next year and a half. It wasn't a perfect system. Sometimes my real feelings would show through. My speech would become a little too passionate and my reasoning a little less than rational as in the case of Box Hill and my dislike of Frank Churchill.

Emma never seemed to notice any change.

And she never will. Particularly when I come back as the new Knightley. I will forget the sparkle in her eyes when she's plotting and the way she felt in my arms when we danced last May. I will no longer care about her impending marriage to Frank Churchill and how that will affect her father. Emma leaving Hartfield—pah! So be it. I shall wish her a hearty congratulations at her wedding and warmly wave goodbye as her carriage departs for Enscombe.

Good bye.

Good riddance.

Chapter 3:

I am doing this completely the wrong way.

I though perhaps putting this down on paper would help me see the ridiculousness of it all and allow me to move onward, but all it has done is forced me to remember.

And this house! I hear Isabella's voice on the stairs. She is so like Emma and yet so different. Though I admire Isabella and care very much for her, she has never held the place in my heart equal to that of Emma's. Emma defies me and has never been afraid to speak her mind. She has none of her father's anxious irrationality as Isabella does. Yet, there is something in her tone and in her eyes which constantly reminds me of Emma. There is that same eagerness to help. Funny enough, both of them go overboard in their efforts.

It is not just seeing Isabella which causes me to lament. It is also the great atmosphere of familial love and joy which I long for. Donwell has been so very empty since my mother's death. The closest thing I have to family in Highbury are the Woodhouses. For some reason I never thought of myself as a "confirmed bachelor." I've always wanted a family. I just never found the right person to begin one with. And then, when I did, it seemed impossible. I will never love anyone again, of that I am sure. I have lived long enough to know that I do not fall in love easily and that my feelings for Emma are exceptional and occur only once in someone's lifetime. When Emma is gone, any flicker of hope I could possibly still have is gone with her.

Henry will make an excellent master of Donwell.

As grey storm clouds roll into London, my mood continues to darken. I picture my prospects and they are bleak.

_I see myself, watching Emma walk down the isle towards me. She is like a goddess in white. A nervous smile creeps up her face, but her eyes are so full of love. I wish to God that smile was for me. She moves past me and takes his hand. I hear the vicar ask if there are any objections and my heart leaps into my throat. But, I cannot. I cannot ruin her happiness that way. _

_I kiss her cheek as she runs with him, arm in arm, towards the carriage, pausing only to tell the ones she once cared for a final goodbye. She whispers to me to watch after her father. Our last private moment, gone._

_I become an uncle to her children. We see each other each Christmas at John and Isabella's. Each passing year she becomes less and less my Emma and more and more Mrs. Churchill, obedient wife and loving mother. Her eyes lose their sparkle. Her radiance, once so spectacular, disappears. She grows tired. And I still love her._

_I too fade away. I become a shadow of what I once was. My life is simply gong through the motions. There is not challenge, no reason, no goal. _

_I hold her hand at Frank's funeral. He dies too young from an adventurous life. She mourns for him in a way she will never mourn for me. In all of his absurdity she still chose him. She never saw him or I are for what we really are, avoiding the truth like a mud puddle, doing everything to dodge and leap around it. And still I love her._

I can hear the rain beginning to tap softy against the window. No doubt it will be heavier soon. As the rain streaks across the window, I notice the wetness of my own cheeks. The last time I felt such a sensation was upon my mother's death and the time before that, upon my father's. Both times, who was there for me but Emma Woodhouse? The first time, she was only old enough to hand me her tiny handkerchief, but the second… I remember how she held me, letting me shed tears into her shoulder without shame. For the third time in my life, I have been driven to tears, but for the first time, Emma Woodhouse is not there to comfort me.

I can write no more. I must pause here and attempt to work toward my goal: forgetting Emma Woodhouse.

John says the mail has come.

The mail: a welcome distraction.

A letter from Weston he says. Of course. From Weston. The initiator of all this nonsense. No doubt a letter announcing Emma's official engagement to Frank Churchill. After all, they'd all but declared it before my departure. Ah yes, little John has brought it to me. Thank you, John. You do not know what you have in your hand: a verbal contracting, if you will, sealing my destiny. I, George Knightley, hereby state that upon reading the letter before me, I will henceforth live of a half-life and keep part of me, the part that longs to just be near her and the part that would love to challenge Churchill to a duel, always in check, always bound, always silent. I will allow Mrs. Emma Churchill nee Woodhouse to live a happy life and to never let her know the pain I feel as it would only bring her guilt. This I swear though I have signed nothing and though I enter this contract not by my own choice.

I ponder for a moment tossing the note out the window and into the rain outside, giving me a few more days of hope that Weston may have just been writing about the new path by Donwell stables.

No. Take it like a man, Knightley. Get it over with.

Let's see, what does he say?

_Knightley—_

_I hope you're having better weather in London than we are here. Bad weather has almost entirely halted progress on the new road. The workers have not only not been able to set the area, they have not been able to come out here at all. The mud is too much for them to come through. I worry for your new strawberry plants and the orchard you're getting ready for fall. I fear the wetness may have somewhat damaged your crops. I saw Larkins today at the market and…_

Perhaps all he did want to speak about is business. Or perhaps he fears telling me. I'll skip to the end.

_Now, I have some good news which I am eager to share. _

Here we go.

_I am sure that you, Knightley, will not find it as wonderful as do Mrs. Weston and myself. I would like to be the first to reveal to you the engagement of my son. It seems that the engagement has been in place for some time, but that they were waiting for the best time to announce it._

Oh God, what a fool I've been, telling Emma about all my suspicions about Frank Churchill. Of course they've had an understanding! The way they behaved at Box Hill certainly gave proof of that. I will read on.

_Frank's aunt passed away recently and though her passing brings Frank great sorrow, he feels that she would always have tried to prevent any marriage he chose to enter into. Now that she is gone, Frank has felt free to announce his engagement to Jane Fairfax._

What? This cannot be. Weston, do not torture me so. This must be some kind of cruel mistake for it is too wonderful to be so.

_I know you must surprised, most especially since you have known of my hopes in another direction, but I am most pleased with Frank's choice. He could not have found a more elegant or worthy bride. Their engagement formed at Weymouth, but they feared telling Mrs. Churchill. They have kept it a secret since that time. I confess, I am disappointed in some of my son's behavior, particularly in the case of Miss Woodhouse, but I am sure that in time, all will be forgotten and Mrs. Weston and I are proud to welcome Miss Fairfax into our family. We look forward to your return so that you may share our joy. _

_Your humble friend,_

_F. Weston_

I can say nothing. My heart is so filled with so many different feelings I could burst from the slightest movement. At first I think, how could he had trifled with her in such a way? How could he have wounded her so? And then, my thoughts shift, suddenly, dramatically and I thank God that he was indeed trifling with her.

I could shout it from my window, run mad through the streets, tell everyone I meet! Cool, collected Knightley my foot! I can't wait to tell John and Isabella. I think John must know what is wrong with me. He's been hinting at it all week.

Oh thank God!

He's not in love with Emma!

Emma!

How she must feel… I am certain she had feelings for Churchill. I will return at once. Rain or no rain. She needs me now and I must be there for her. Not as her lover or her suitor, but only as her friend. I can hope for nothing, but that she will let me comfort her as best as I can. Perhaps then—someday… No, I cannot think on it. I will go now.

Wish me luck.


End file.
